


Dancing with a Broken Heart

by agentofvalue



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:56:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4082305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentofvalue/pseuds/agentofvalue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy shares a dance with her daughter</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing with a Broken Heart

Peggy pushed open the door with her hip, her arms too full to be any help. It was a nice afternoon, so it wasn't locked or even closed properly. She entered the small entry way littered with shoes and outerwear from the kids. She kicked off her own shoes, adding them to the mountain even though she was forever telling them not to do the same.   
  
Down a short hallway and into the kitchen where she dumped her briefcase and the armload of files onto the table. She hated going into the office on the weekends. But with her position, nine to five wasn't an option. She'd got the call at barely four o'clock in the morning. So she'd given a sleepy kiss to her husband and dashed out hours before the sun would come up. As the director, she didn't miss the important calls anymore. The crisis was in hand, so she'd sent half the agents home and gathered her own paperwork and went back to her family. Speaking of which…

“Hello?” she called out.   
  
No answer. Everything was quiet. Too quiet for the sunny Saturday. She paused and listened more carefully. Faintly, she heard a few bars of a song coming from above.   
  
The sound was so out of place in the big American kitchen in her big American house. The song belonged to bars in European basements filled with GIs. To rainy days in the mud and training for the S.S.R. missions. To the smell of gunpowder and herring in the wind. It belonged to history. It was jazz from a different age. An age of uniforms and rations and saying goodbye to loved ones.

The sound was just as haunting as the memories. It was just far away enough that she almost had to hold her breath to hear it. She closed her eyes and breathed out. _Today of all days_. She had been busy all day and hadn’t had time to dwell. The thought kept her up last night even before the call.   
  
Bare stockinged feet padded over the hardwood floors as she headed towards the stairs. She went up one flight and then another to reach the attic. They inherited a large oriental rug in the space and with a few other odds and ends, it had been turned into a playroom for the kids. The ceiling sloped and there was a large peaked window at one end, a couch and very small table and chairs. Boxes also found their way up for storage. It was cluttered and cozy.   
  
The door at the top of the steep steps were open, and the music was clear now. Someone had got into the old records.   
  
Peggy leaned against the jam. Her daughter danced in the middle of the room. The girl was surrounded by a dozen recorders in their colorful covers spread out on the floor. She was twirling; her favorite activity of late. The skirt of her tartan dress fanned out as she moved to the music. Her long tawny hair  was falling out of yesterday's braid. Her father would only let that slide on a weekend. Around her shoulders was Peggy’s olive uniform jacket.   
  
Peggy watched, smiling to herself, not wanting to interrupt the perfect scene. As the song came to a slower part, the twirling stopped and Billie realized she was being watched.   
  
"Mummy!" she squealed with all the energy a seven-year-old could muster. She ran to Peggy, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist. Peggy took a step backward to keep from being knocked over.  
  
"Hello, my darling," she said and planted a kiss on Billie's forehead.   
  
"You missed breakfast," Billie said, continuing to hang on.   
  
"And lunch. What's all this?"   
  
"Dad said it was okay."   
  
Not exactly what she meant. "Where is your father?" Peggy asked.   
  
"Out in the backyard—"  
  
"Gardening," Peggy finished for her. They both laughed.   
  
He had been a soldier, career military but had retired last year for the private sector. He convinced himself he needed a hobby and had chosen gardening, even though he hated it and, truth be told, wasn't very good at it either. Things were constantly dying. The garden was a bit of a joke in the family.   
  
"I heard him yelling," Billie said.   
  
"They say you have to talk nicely to the plants to help them grow."   
  
Billie made a face like 'uh oh.' Peggy laughed again.   
  
"And Roger?" she asked. She had a better guess for him. At eleven, her son and a few neighborhood boys loved nothing more than careening around the streets on their bicycles, especially now the weather was finally starting to get warm.   
  
Billie shrugged. "He said I couldn't come."   
  
"We have the house to ourselves. More room for dancing, right?"  
  
"Right!" Billie let go with a wild spin. She let go of the top and it landed at Peggy's feet.   
  
She picked it up but didn't hand it back to her daughter. It was so familiar. She'd warn her uniform for only a few years, but she still felt like she was missing something without it. The stiff, olive material was exactly as she remembered. She might have taken the uniform off for the last time yesterday instead of close to fifteen years ago.    
  
How had that much time have passed?   
  
Peggy perched on the couch, still running her fingers over the buttons, where the S.S.R. pins should have been on the collar. They were safely tucked away in her jewelry box. The music had the same strange familiarity. The time and all of her sense were wrapped up. Sights, sounds, smell, touch, it was all so connected and vivid. There were so many things to remember.   
  
"Mummy?"   
  
Peggy blinked. Billie had stopped and was watching her mother.   
  
"Hmm?"   
  
"You okay?"   
  
"Of course. Just thinking."

"'Bout what?"

She motioned her daughter closer. Billie came and nestled against her mum. She was still standing between Peggy's knees, facing forward. She let her daughter hold the jacket. 

"Do you know where this is from?" she asked, meaning the jacket.  
  
"It's Dad's uniform."   
  
"Mine actually," Peggy said.   
  
Billie tensed in her arms. "Daddy said I could play dress up. I didn't know it was yours.”   
  
Peggy doubted her daughter had ever seen her uniform. Her work was so secretive, it wasn’t like they kept photos in the living room. She'd only kept one uniform, folded neatly in one of the boxes in the attic. "You're not in trouble. You didn't know. I wore a uniform just like your father's. Except I stopped when the war was over. Women couldn't stay in the Army. But during the fighting, I was in the middle of it, alongside many brave men and women."  _One brave man, in particular_ , she thought. 

Peggy reached up and slowly undid daughter's braid. "We used to dance to music like this," she continued. "When we did get some down time, which wasn't often." _There was one dance I never got._   
  
"I like it," Billie said.   
  
"Me too."   
  
She twisted Billie's hair back into a braid, all the flyaways now in place. She helped Billie put on the top and then nudged her around to button it up. It was far too big. The sleeves nearly reached her knees. The belt was missing, so it just hung boxy around Billie’s frame. The collar looked naked without the pins.   
  
She leaned back to see the effect. Billie straightened her shoulders and saluted in perfect form. She had been well taught by her father. "Agent Carter, reporting for duty, ma'am."  
  
Peggy smiled again, but she felt the sadness pulling at the corner of her lips. God willing, her children would never have to report for duty. Still, she saluted back.   
  
"Daddy talks about the war sometime, but you never do," Billie said with both naiveté and wisdom.

"Well, what I did was a lot more secret. I'm still not supposed to talk about even to you." She tapped Billie on the nose gently. Billie made a face. "Maybe someday I can tell you."   
  
Her daughter would know about the war but someday. Billie would know about the men and women who helped keep her mother and father safe during that time. About the men and women her parents risked their lives for. _I'll tell you about Steve someday too_ , she thought. She distracted herself with unbuttoning the jacket and began neatly folding it. It wasn’t really a thing to play with.   
  
"Something about Captain America," said Billie.   
  
Peggy looked back at her daughter. "Where did you hear that? Your brother?"   
  
She nodded earnestly. "He says you knew him. He says you were friends, but that no one is supposed to know. He says that Captain America was made and how is a big secret that you know. So, no one should you even know you knew him because then they might guess that you know the secret and that's not safe." She said this all very fast as if she had been holding onto it for some time. "Are we safe?"   
  
"Darling, of course. I won't let anything happen to you. That's why Mummy sometime isn't here when you wake up. I'm making sure we're all safe. You don't have to be afraid."

"I wasn't scared."   
  
"Well, I'm glad.” She laid the jacket on her lap, smoothing invisible wrinkles to buy a few seconds of time. _Today of all days_. “I did work with Captain America. I was with the scientific unit that helped make him Captain America. He was a friend of mine too. I miss him still. We worked together for most of the war. But your brother is sort of right. We don't want everyone to know. It's not dangerous, but we can't talk about with anyone outside our family. Do you understand?"   
  
Billie nodded seriously. "But Mum?"   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"Actually, who was Captain America?"   
  
Peggy snorted. She took hold of Billie's chin for a moment. "I love you. Do you know that?"  
  
Billie fought back a smile. Knowing she had done something funny, but not really understanding what. "I love you too. But who was he?"   
  
"He was a hero, Billie. In the truest sense." Her daughter still looked confused. Peggy's waxing poetic was not a good enough explanation. "He was a super hero. You've seen him in newsreels. With the shield."  
  
"Oooooh," Billie said, drawing out the sound. "That Captain America. Wow. Was he just like they say? Was he amazing? And brave? And really, really strong? Did you see him fight? Did you see his shield? Was it heavy?" She was clearly understanding her mother in a whole new light.  
  
"Yes, he was very brave," Peggy said, only able to answer one question at a time. "He saved a lot of lives during the war, including your father's." _And mine_ , she thought though it was a different kind of saving. Her voice cracked. 

She got up and moved passed her daughter. She didn't want Billie to see the threatening tears. _Today of all days_. Someday, when Billie was older and maybe she had suffered her own heartbreak, Peggy might tell her the full story. Of lost love and of a lost future. Of how plans don't always meet expectations.

Peggy loved her life. She loved her husband and her children. She loved her work. There was nothing that would make her trade them in. But sometimes, just sometimes, she wondered about the greatest what if in her life. What if Steve had survived? There was no telling how it might have turned out. Probably no better or no worst, but definitely vastly different.

Peggy went to one of the open boxes and dug around until she found the rest of her uniform. Skirt, shirt, tie, the belt was at the bottom, everything but the hat. She never wore the thing anyway. She collected the jacket and left her daughter to twirl. She needed to find a better place to store the uniform. Billie had plenty of her father’s old ones to play with. This one was special.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she said.

Billie didn’t pay much attention. The next song was under way and she was dancing again.

Peggy went down to the stairs, into the master bedroom and straight to the closet. There was a box on the top shelf with everything else from her war days. She wasn’t sure it would fit, probably why her uniform ended up in the attic. It was better to keep it all together. One neat little box to keep everything sealed up and to take out and peruse when she was in the mood to feel sad. Or on days like today when it couldn’t be escaped.

She pulled open the door and then reached for the cord of the light. It clicked on and swung back and forth. She set the uniform down and then reached up on her tippy toes to the highest shelf. Her fingers scrabbled at the corner of the box until she got more purchase. It was an old file box stamped with a faded S.S.R. emblem. She pulled it down and set it on the floor. Tucking her leg beneath her, she settled next to it. She could still hear the jazz from upstairs.   
  
_April 18th_ , she thought for the hundredth time since opening her eyes at four in the morning. The day Captain America had disappeared and her entire life had changed course.   
  
It didn't take much to change a life entirely. One little event could ripple out in unimaginable ways. That's not what she had thought about as she spoke to him on the radio, knowing and not accepting it would be the last time. She had not wanted an entire life in that movement. She had wanted one dance. One night the next week to see his face, to feel his tentative touch, and to teach him how to dance. She hadn't wanted the world, just one dance.

She lifted the lid. The cardboard had bubbled, warped a little with age and it took some effort to get it open. The box was filled with files, mementos, service awards in velvet boxes, a few things she probably shouldn’t have, her service weapon—cleaned, unloaded and wrapped in cloth. Right on the top, where they were easiest to get to, was a small stack of photos.

The first one was of herself dressed in the full uniform, booted and suited, buttons shining, and looking nervous but sure. She looked like a child to her own eyes. She had been nineteen—even though the S.S.R. thought she was twenty-one—and shipping out the next day. She shook her head at how young she had been. It was hard to believe sometimes. When the photo had been taken, she was less than ten years older than her son and ready to fight.

The rest of the stack were mostly pictures from Camp Lehigh. Group shots. Her training men. Her yelling at men. A few with the small group of other women at the camp all in casual dress and holding martinis. There were a few from Europe in which she wore tactical gear, but there were far less chance for photo ops there. It was the last one she was looking for.

It was of Steve before they used the serum on him. He was as skinny and small as the day she met him despite him having trained for probably weeks. The photo had been wedged into the corner of her mirror for a long time. It was faded except for one corner that had been covered by the frame. She lifted it up and rubbed her finger along the worn edges.

What if he was still here? What if he had come home? They had never even found the plane. Captain America's grave at Arlington was an empty memorial. He had crashed in the ocean. Even if they had the absolute exact coordinates where the plane entered the water, the odds of finding him were very small. No one hadn’t been able to find the Titanic either.

She and Howard had been forced to give up the search. Steve saved the world, and they had to give up on him.

But what if they hadn’t? What if April 18th, 1945 had ended differently?

There would have been pure celebration instead of the complicated emotion that came with a completed mission but no one returning home. She was proud of what they had accomplished that day. Steve saved a lot of people and it had helped end the war. She could remember what a successful mission felt like. Job was done and everyone coming home. She could only imagine the cheers in place of the burning memory of static on the quiet radio.

She imagined him appearing in a moment she least expected in the days afterward. It would've taken him a while to get back to base. He would have surveyed the crowd, a little unsure until someone noticed or until he found her. He would have looked for her. She was sure of that one fact.

After the war, Steve would have certainly gone back to New York. She doubted he would consider anywhere but Brooklyn. Maybe they both would have gone to work at the S.S.R. She didn’t want to be defined by her partner, but with Steve there with her, would her coworkers have treated her differently? Would they have understood what she had done during the war? That she had been with Captain America every step of the way. They fought side by side. She saved his arse too.

They would have had their dance and more. Would she have shared a life with Steve? Would they have found a home together? Would it be his daughter she watched dance?

Peggy bent her head and rested her forehead on her fist. Just one minute more. One more moment to dwell in the fantasy.

They would live in an apartment in Brooklyn on the top floor with a view of the bridge if you stood at just the right stop. She saw two children, very much like Roger and Billie, but with lighter hair. Her son wouldn’t be called Roger because his surname would be Rogers. The apartment would be crowded when everyone was home, but they would all love it no matter how much they complained. They would squeeze around a little table for dinners.

At night, when the city sounds were far away, she would feel Steve’s body against hers. She would trace his scars with her fingertips and he would kiss hers.

She rapped the heel of her hand against her forehead once. Peggy hated thinking like this. It wasn’t wishing. It really wasn’t. She loved her life. She loved her family. Her husband wasn’t a second choice. The only regret she was never being allowed the option of a life with Steve. It was just a lot of questions and what ifs she could never answer. Maybe they would’ve tried and maybe it wouldn’t have worked and maybe everything else would have been exactly as it was. They hadn’t been given the chance to try. It was the thought that kept her awake on the rare occasion her mind wandered in these directions.

The war took so much from so many. She escaped with her life, but haunted by the hope of one dance. It was a small price. She wasn't complaining; she would take it.   
  
Her path led to amazing things. A little heartache was worth the smiles of her children. The pain was what it cost her; she only wished the price for Steve hadn’t been so high.

The photo she was starting at started to blur. A single, fat tear spilled over. She sniffed. It just wasn’t fair. She tore her gaze away from Steve’s face. Well, there wasn’t a lot that was fair in the world. She set the pictures back in the box and wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

With a little reorganizing, she made space for the uniform. She had gained much more practice packing as a mother of two than she ever had in all her years of service and traveling. The lid was even harder to get on, but everything was together, wrapped up in nice package in a way she could never do with her feelings.

Getting up, she lifted the box and shoved it back onto its shelf. She smoothed her skirt before stepping out of her closet again. She paused for a moment in front of the mirror to make sure it wasn’t obvious she had been crying, but gave herself no time to ponder all the changes in the intervening years. She wasn’t nineteen anymore and leave it at that.

The music was still drifting from the attic. She owed her daughter at least one dance. At the top of the stairs, she stopped in the doorway again.   
  
"Care to dance, mademoiselle?" she asked.   
  
"Yes!" said Billie.   
  
She leaped forward and scooped Billie up. They spun around a few times out of sync with the music. Billie was laughing. Peggy slowed and set her daughter down without letting go of her hands. They danced together; Billie taking every chance to spin to the tips of Peggy’s fingers.   
  
The song ended and Peggy let Billie spin out of her grasp. She was still giggling. She curtsied. Peggy applauded.   
  
"Bravo. Bravo!" she said, in an exaggerating way. "You are a marvelous dancer."   
  
Billie curtsied again.   
  
"Where did you learn to dance like that, darling?" Peggy asked.   
  
"You taught me."   
  
"Oh yes, I guess I must have. I'm a very good teacher."   
  
"Who else did you teach?"   
  
"Just you," Peggy answered.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought.


End file.
